Unanswered Questions
by Jem Kallop
Summary: Marik is a child in Ancient Egypt, studying to be a Scribe, when he meets a white-haired boy who opens his eyes to the world outside of his school and the Temple. But then the boy disappears without a word, leaving Marik to return to his dull, monotonous life. What happens when the two meet again after several years apart? Citronshipping oneshot.


**This citronshipping oneshot is for the incredible FanGirl16, and I really hope she likes it! It's set in Ancient Egypt, but I'm not sure how accurate my information is. Don't treat this as a history; it's a story, and I have been liberal with the facts, although I have tried to keep it accurate where I can. ^_^ I hope you enjoy! – Jem**

"Isis, wait!"

The young boy stumbled along the sandy ground, his white robes flapping around his ankles and his blonde hair flying back from his forehead. He left a trail of footprints across the sanded stone path, becoming deeper as they entered the long, imposing shadow of the Temple of Horus; glancing up once at the sanded stone building, the boy raced forwards, desperately reaching out for the disappearing robes of his sister. "Isis, please! Take me with you!"

The woman stopped, turning just for a second as she looked with sad blue eyes down at her younger brother. "Marik, I'm sorry, truly I am, but you know it is forbidden for you to enter the Temple."

"I just want to sit with you." Marik sniffed, looking downcast. His eyes shifted from right to left as he kicked at the stony ground with one foot, sand flying up from the toes of his thin sandals. It was growing darker now, the ever-present shadow of the Temple growing at an alarming pace. The air became heavy with the scents and sounds of night.

Isis drew in a breath, crouching down to be at eye-level with her brother. "I'm sorry. I have to go – curfew is nearly up, and they'll miss you back at the school."

"But I want to stay with you!" Marik's tone turned into a low whine, laced with something akin to a demand.

Isis shook her head at him, leaning forwards just briefly enough to plant a kiss to his sweaty forehead. "You will be fine, Marik – you always are. Go on, away with you now. I will see you tomorrow."

Marik just sniffed, watching with a petulant pout as his sister rose to her feet and swiftly disappeared into the dark reaches of the Temple. He remained outside, watching the ground that her feet had treaded, for far longer than he should have; by the time he finally turned to leave it was fully dark, the occasional flicker of torchlight the only beams available to guide him back to the school. Marik traced the familiar path with sadness and hunger weighing down his every movement. His stomach creased at the thought of his sister, and he could feel dampness at his eyes; he dashed it away with a vindictive, jagged gesture, well aware that tears did not help his situation. His sister was a Priestess now, and there was nothing he could do to change that fact, regardless of how little time it meant he was allowed to spend with her. Marik drew in a shaky breath, trying and failing to pull his thoughts away from his miserable situation. An orphan without family, Marik's social standing was barely above that of a thief, but Isis ... Isis was on her way up. She had been accepted as a Priestess in the Temple of Horus, and Marik knew that he should be very happy for her, but he couldn't help the jealousy that pierced his very heart when he thought of how the Falcon God had stolen his sister away from him. Of course, she had not abandoned him – he knew she would never do that – but once her request for him to enter the School of the Scribes had been accepted, Marik's life path was set, and he had little to no choice in the matter. Marik wasn't exactly against the idea of becoming a Scribe, especially as it was what Isis desperately wanted for him, but he didn't like the way he was forced into a career that he would not have chosen for himself. Marik did not enjoy being forced to study letters and numbers all day; he would much rather have been out haggling in the markets, or playing with the other children. Of course, in the School he was surrounded by others his age, but Marik's social standing as a poor orphan guaranteed him very few friends. Isis was his only companion, but her duties were leading him further and further away from him, until Marik was left facing a terrifying future where he would have to fend entirely for himself. For a boy as young as he was, Marik had a very good idea of what his future would hold, and it wasn't a concept he was happy with.

Keeping his footsteps deliberately slow, Marik wandered the lonely path back to his school with a heavy heart and low, drooping shoulders. He was tired of this – his days were long and dull, filled with dusty parchment and musty scrolls, and the Scribes always peering over his shoulder to make sure he was working as hard as he could. Marik wanted to get away from there. The night air was cool against his exposed skin and he shivered, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso as goosebumps raised on his legs. The torchlight was meagre around here, hardly enough for Marik to see more than a few feet in front of him. He kept his gaze trained on the ground, watching out for any creepy-crawlies that might block his path, so he didn't notice the other shadowy figure edging towards him until it was too late.

With a startled yelp, Marik found himself flung backwards, landing painfully on his side as another tough weight crashed into him. He heard a muffled growl and felt something heavy against his chest. Marik instinctively kicked out, wincing when his legs met a sturdy form, inducing a grunt from the thing lying on top of him. Marik squealed.

"Shut _up_!"

Marik just screamed louder when a pair of clear grey eyes danced into his vision. They blinked, watching him with a detached curiousity before they disappeared from view again, and the weight suddenly left Marik's chest. A darkly tanned hand cut across Marik's sight, and above it Marik could sense a dark, shadowy form watching him with a quizzical expression. Hesitantly, Marik reached out and took the offered hand, using it to pull himself back up to his feet. The hand disappeared from Marik's as soon as he was upright.

Silently, Marik tilted his head as he examined the person in front of him. It was a boy about his own age; a boy with startling white hair and sharp grey eyes that pinned Marik firmly in place. Dark arms were folded across a tattered, dirty robe, thin legs sticking out from under it and ending in bare, dusty feet. Marik frowned at that; this boy looked even poorer than Marik did. Then he turned to face Marik, and the blonde took a step back; marring the smooth, young skin under one bright grey eye was a long, jagged scar, the old tissue turned white in stark contrast to the dark tone of his face. Marik swallowed.

Breaking the silence, the boy opposite Marik questioned, "Who are you?"

"I'm Marik," the young blonde answered immediately, his violet eyes shining with curiousity. "Who are you?"

"I'm not important." The boy narrowed his eyes as he looked Marik over once again, taking in his – albeit dirty – white Scribe's robe. "Why are you out so late?"

Marik frowned, disbelieving the boy when he said that he wasn't important but deciding not to question it just yet; not whilst he was actually managing a conversation with another person his age that didn't involve ridicule and hurt. "I was visiting my sister at the Temple, but then she had to go, so now I have to go back."

"Back?" The boy leaned forwards, a slight eagerness showing in his expression. "Back where?"

"To the school." Marik looked down, biting his lip. He didn't want to think about returning there yet – perhaps he could make this boy talk to him for a little longer. His violet eyes brightened at the thought. "So where are you going?"

The boy ignored his question in favour of asking another one of his own. "Did you say you'd been to the Temple? Which one?"

"The Temple of Horus. My sister's a Priestess there." Marik brightened even further at the prospect of bragging a little to this stranger. "She's one of the important ones, who goes to feed and clothe the statue every morning. She's special, she is." Marik nodded defiantly at the last sentence, as if daring the other child to deny his sister's worth.

The boy just sent him a small smirk, and Marik's stomach flipped when he caught sight of sharp white teeth. "I'm sure she is. Can you take me to the Temple?"

"You want to see it?" Marik turned and pointed, his finger shooting straight into the air. "It's right there! The tallest building in this part of the town..."

"I meant the inside," the boy interrupted patiently. "I want to go inside."

Marik's jaw dropped. He turned back to the boy with his eyes widened in horror; the expression would have been amusing had the other boy's eyes not been so sharp and serious. Marik shook his head, snapping his jaw shut abruptly. "Inside? No one but the Priests and Priestesses can go _inside_ the Temple!"

"Really? Not even a relative of such a special Priestess?" The white-haired boy shot him a smirk, and even at such a young age the expression was dark. "I thought you would be allowed in. I guess you're just not important enough – I'll have to find someone else..."

"I am _so_ important!" Marik puffed his chest out, placing his hands on his hips and fixing the other boy with a glare. "The Priests and Priestesses all know me! Anyway, you won't find anyone else to help you – it's too late now."

The boy's face fell a little before he turned his sharp gaze back on Marik. "You can take me, then. Like you said, all the Priests and Priestesses know you, so even if you are caught they'll just send for your sister, and she won't do anything really bad to you."

"Well..." Marik frowned, thinking it over. The Temple was strictly forbidden to all members of the public, but, well, Marik _wasn't_ just a commoner, was he? He was the brother of one of the High Priestesses! And it wouldn't hurt if they just went into the forecourt ... Lifting his nose proudly into the air, Marik nodded once, breaking into a wide grin. "Ok, I'll take you there. On one condition, though – you have to tell me your name."

The white-haired boy frowned at that, his lips twisting downwards. "No one knows my name."

"Well, I want to!" Marik glared at him. "Or I won't take you to the Temple!"

The boy snapped, "Fine. My name is ... Bakura."

"Hello, Bakura." Marik rolled the unfamiliar syllables around on his tongue, trying them out once more. "Bakura. Alright, Bakura, follow me. To the Temple we will go!"

Bakura shook his head once, a small smile tugging at his lips before he settled back into his usual smirk, following the other boy down the path.

The town was plunged into darkness by this time, even the torches barely casting tiny pools of light through the thick air. Marik's steps were confident despite this, the route so familiar to him that he had little to no difficulty in treading the stony way back towards the Temple. Even in the darkness it cast a heavy shadow, looming threateningly over both of the young boys as they slipped up to its entrance. Marik's footsteps slowed the closer they got, worry nibbling at his gut until he finally drew to a halt. Bakura strode on past him, walking straight up to the Temple and running his hands along the stone. It was warm beneath his palms.

Marik watched him with a jumping stomach, nerves leaping through his veins and causing trembles to run down his spine. Bakura seemed to catch his mood, for the white-haired boy turned with a wicked smirk. "Scared, Marik?"

"No!" Marik drew himself up, back bristling automatically. "Of course not! It's just ... no one's meant to go in there..."

Bakura shrugged, turning back to the stone with an eager flash to his grey eyes. "So we'll be the first. Don't you want to see where your sister spends her days?"

Marik chewed his lip, turning it over. In all honesty, he would love to see inside the Temple, but if Isis ever found out...

One more look at Bakura's confident, almost scornful smirk, and Marik's mind was made up. With a sniff, the small blonde child edged up to the sheer stone surface, feeling his way along until he found the entrance. Without stopping to think about his movements, Marik confidently walked straight into the darkness, sensing Bakura's silent footsteps at his heels. The entrance was a narrow, straight corridor between two sheer rock faces, covered in darkness at this time of night. Marik hesitated the further they went, his steps faltering and hands clenching and unclenching restlessly by his side. Bakura, in contrast, seemed completely at ease, his arms swinging nonchalantly as he followed Marik out into the open-air forecourt. Marik couldn't stop a gasp escaping his mouth as he looked around. The forecourt was huge, a vast, open-aired space that even in the utter darkness of the Egyptian night was impressively intimidating. Marik looked around in awe, his eyes wide. His sister worked here? Isis got to come here every day, and it wasn't fair! Marik was stuck in that awful school, learning to be a Scribe, when all he wanted was to be with his sister in such majestic places as this. It was beautiful.

Bakura barely spared the huge court a cursory glance, heading instead straight for the Vestibule. He paused just long enough to recover a torch from one wall, lighting it hurriedly and allowing the flame to pool through the darkness. Marik was drawn to it, walking straight over to Bakura's side, desperately trying to ignore the shadows that leaped up around them. "S-so, this is the forecourt. Once you've seen enough, we should go..."

The white-haired boy made a derisive noise, ignoring Marik as he turned and walked to the entrance to the Vestibule. "Please. We've hardly started!"

"We're really not allowed in there!" Marik panicked as Bakura seemed to have no intention of stopping, racing after him down the narrow passageway. "Stop, Bakura! STOP!"

A scoff floated back through the darkened air, echoing as the white-haired boy entered the Vestibule. Marik hissed, his little legs pumping as he raced after the beam of torchlight, his heart hammering in his chest. "You've got to get out of there! If the guards catch us..."

"They won't." Bakura sounded far too confident for Marik's liking as he continued straight into the Hypostyle Hall, the huge pillars stretching frighteningly high up to the ceiling. "Who pays attention to us? We're nobody."

"I'm somebody!" Marik pouted as he tore after Bakura, breath sounding in loud pants. "And so are you! If we're caught, Isis will kill me!"

Bakura stopped short, turning on his heel and sending Marik a quizzical look, his head tilted. "Is Isis your sister?"

Marik nodded furiously. "And she'll be mad! We have to go..."

"She won't catch us," Bakura explained patiently. "No one will. It's late, everyone will be sleeping! Don't you want to see the Temple, Marik? Don't you want to find out what's just behind the next door?"

"We can't –"

"Just one night." Bakura took a step forward, the sound of his bare feet ringing loudly through the vast space. "One night of exploring. How much bad stuff can happen in one night? And we'll get to see the Temple! We'll know its treasures, its secrets – they're all here for us. Please, Marik? Come with me?"

Marik felt shivers tingle down his spine at the excitement in Bakura's voice. The very act of being here was forbidden, but that only added to the excitement; Marik could feel it building in his gut, sending delicious shivers right to the tips of his fingers as he looked around. The Temple was beautiful; the beam of the torch outlined huge coloured pictures on the walls, depicting stories of Gods and Kings so far above Marik that he could barely imagine their greatness. This place, though, was a part of that history, and just for one night, Marik could be too. Meeting Bakura's eyes, Marik nodded, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Alright. Let's go exploring!"

Bakura's smirk spread across his face and he turned without another word, rushing to the wall with the torchlight sending shadows scattering across the floor.

The boys spent hours exploring that vast hall, examining each and every image that covered the walls. The thrill of knowing the danger of being caught kept Marik on edge the whole time, his nerves jumping in his stomach and his blood racing around his body as he bounded across the stone hall, Bakura always by his side. The white-haired boy was mostly silent as he examined the paintings, his brow furrowing as he stared at hieroglyphs. "I wish I knew what it says..."

Marik walked up to his shoulder, peeking through strands of white hair and saying, "It just explains a part of the story of Horus. You know, the bit about how he fought Seth for the throne of Egypt."

"What?" Bakura shot Marik a frown, his young face screwed into an expression of confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Marik let out a small laugh. "Look. This symbol is the Eye of Horus; you know, he lost his eye in the battle with Seth, but then it was restored. Now it's a symbol of protection. This Temple is protected by the God himself." Marik's voice slipped into a hush and he looked around with sudden fear, his throat constricting. Imagined pairs of watchful eyes flickered through the darkness. Marik shook.

Bakura scoffed a little, his free hand reaching out to trace the patterns on the wall. "So you can really read this?"

"I have to, at school." Marik turned away from the shadows with a shudder, leaning into the torchlight. "Can't you?"

Bakura simply shook his head, his eyes keenly tracing the patterns. Marik chewed his lip as he watched, a furrow appearing in his forehead. "How come? Can't your family teach you?"

"They're dead." Bakura's tone immediately turned harsh, his eyes dulling in the bright torchlight.

Marik's jaw dropped. He stared at Bakura, wide-eyed. "Your whole family?"

"My whole village." Bakura's voice was hard and strained, his eyes narrowed and flashing as he turned their grey depths on Marik. "They were slaughtered four years ago, and I watched. Now I'm on my own."

Marik froze in shock, his mind tripping to catch up with the words of this boy who was no older than he. "All on your own?

Bakura's face closed. He steadfastly turned his back on Marik, footsteps loud as his bare feet slapped against the stone floor. Marik watched for a moment, his mouth still wide open as he watched Bakura's white hair bob out of sight. The torchlight wavered along the walls, sending lengthy shadows sprouting over the vibrantly coloured images, further and further away from Marik and closer and closer to the Sanctuary. Before Marik realised, Bakura was in the First Antechamber and getting ever closer to the second. With a startled squeal, Marik raced after him, screeching out, "You can't go in there! It's forbidden!"

Bakura just shot him a dangerous smirk before striding through the last corridor and into the Sanctuary.

Marik froze in the Second Antechamber, his heart in his mouth. Bakura had gone into the Sanctuary ... he had _gone into the Sanctuary ..._ _No one_ was allowed in the Sanctuary...!

Within seconds, Marik raced through the corridor and into the Sanctuary, his heart screaming and his head pounding. "Bakura! Bakura, you can't! Get back out here ... now..."

Marik trailed off, paralysed with fear when he saw Bakura sat nonchalantly at the feet of the sacred statue of Horus, arms resting on his knees as he examined the food in front of him. Marik shrieked, rushing towards him. "Bakura! Get away from there! Bakura!" Muttering a quick prayer to the God, Marik grabbed Bakura's wrist and tugged him away, ignoring the other's protestations. "You can't, Bakura! That food is an offering for the God, if it's gone missing the Priests will notice!"

"So?" Bakura pulled himself out of Marik's grip, fixing him with a dark stare. Carefully, he set the torch down on the floor before crouching back at the feet of the statue, picking up the food. Marik watched with fear constricting his throat. Isis had told him how the Priests brought offerings to the God every morning, the face pf the statue made up with rouge and eyeliner, expensive robes placed over the carved body. Bakura gave it one scornful glance, wiping his dirtied fingers on the robe before turning to the food, taking a large bite.

Marik audibly gasped. "What are you doing? Only the Priests are allowed in here, and they have to go through all sorts of rituals first! They wash and everything! You can't touch them..."

"Watch me." Bakura took another bite, swallowing ravenously as he dug in. Glancing at Marik's shocked expression, Bakura tore a corner off the loaf of bread and chucked it at Marik, who reflexively caught it. "Tuck in," Bakura gestured, smirking wickedly before sinking his teeth back into the soft crust.

Marik shivered, his fingers falling slack around the bread. "I can't touch this! It's heresy!"

"As if," Bakura scoffed, finishing the bread and turning to the grapes. "No one else is going to eat this; why shouldn't I?"

Marik's eyes widened. "We can't!"

"And why not?" Bakura shook his head as he turned back to Marik, his expression almost amused.

Marik stared right back. "The Priests..."

"Won't notice until morning, and they won't have any way of knowing who did this. Now, are you going to eat or not?" Bakura popped another grape into his mouth, settling comfortably with his back against the statue.

Marik chewed his lip for one more moment before he scooped the bread back up, pressed it into his mouth and sank onto the ground beside Bakura. "Pass me a grape, then."

Bakura smirked, tossing one carelessly in Marik's direction.

The two boys shared food and conversation for the better part of an hour, barely noticing as the shadows began to shorten once more. Marik sent Bakura a confused look, chewing on his final grape. "Um, so, what happened to your village?"

Bakura's expression immediately closed. "I'm not talking about it."

"But if they were killed..."

"No." Bakura turned with a frown, his grey eyes flashing dangerously. "You know too much about me. Why not tell me about you?"

Marik took the change in topic happily enough, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm the Priestess' sister! I'm special."

"You go to the school, don't you?" Bakura tilted his head.

Marik nodded, his face falling slightly. "Isis makes me. I don't really like it, though – I want to be a Priest, like her. Then I can come in here whenever I want. What do you want to be?"

Bakura's expression turned wicked, his smirk stretching his lips wide and revealing sharp white teeth. "I am going to be a tomb robber."

"_What?!"_ Marik shot up from the statue, staring wide-eyed at the white-haired boy.

Bakura folded his arms defiantly. "What? I'm already the best thief in the markets, I can do it!"

"No! You can't be a thief!" Marik stumbled backwards, his fists clenching. "Is that why you wanted to come here? To _steal something?!"_

"Of course." Bakura's smirk turned into a fully-fledged grin. "And you helped me do it. This food will keep me going for days."

Marik fell back with his jaw dropping open. "But you ... you can't! I can't let you..."

"You stole right along with me," Bakura pointed out sagely. "Keep it quiet. I'm warning you."

Marik backed away further. A thief ... He couldn't have assisted a _thief!_ Taking him into the Temple, into the very sanctuary of the God ... Isis would kill him! Marik's stomach dropped as the full realisation of what he had done hit him head-on. With one last, terrified look at Bakura's smug expression, Marik turned on his heel and fled the Sanctuary.

Footsteps sounded behind him as Marik passed through the two Antechambers and back into the Hypostyle Hall. Marik ignored them, increasing his pace with a frightened glance behind him, seeing Bakura's white hair bobbing through the shadows. Marik turned forwards once more, racing past the pillars until he heard something that chilled his very bones.

There were two guards up ahead of him.

Marik froze. His heart raced, sweat dripping from his palms as he stared open-mouthed at the torch that was slowly approaching. He was right out in plain sight, and the guards would see him...

A hand closed tightly around his wrist. A voice muttered, "Come _on,"_ into his ear and he was pulled sideways, down behind one of the pillars. "I put out our torch and hid it," Bakura hissed into Marik's ear. "As long as we stay quiet and hidden, they'll never know we were here."

"They will when they see the food!" Marik whispered back, his breath sounding in panicked gasps. Bakura clapped a hand over his mouth when the guards approached, pulling him further back into the shadows. Marik leaned further into him, hiding his face in Bakura's dirty bare shoulder as the guards stalked past them. They didn't glance around once, but Marik still clung onto Bakura tightly, his fingers digging tightly into his skin. Bakura remained stiff, his sharp grey eyes searing through the shadows until the guards were well out of sight. He nudged Marik, who cuddled closer for a moment before lifting his head, tanned cheeks tear stained. "Have they ... Have they gone?" He breathed shakily.

Bakura jerked his head in a curt nod, clambering to his feet and offering a hand to Marik. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Marik obediently took his hand, allowing himself to be pulled out of the Hypostyle Hall, through the Vestibule and back out into the forecourt. The sun was just beginning to climb over the horizon, filling the clear sky with streaks of orange and red, but Marik barely spared it a glance as he raced through the narrow courtyard and out of the Temple. He didn't stop running until they were far away from the Temple's looming shadow, and the pains shooting through his chest forced him to a halt. Bakura was, as ever, right behind him.

Marik shot him a glare. "I can't believe we did that!"

"You agreed to it," Bakura shrugged, biting into another grape he had stolen from the Temple. "And it was fun, wasn't it?"

Marik shook his head, sagging against a wall in the dark alley they had ended up in. "You idiot! If we'd been caught..."

"We weren't," Bakura interrupted, tipping his head up arrogantly. "I'm too good to get caught."

Marik just stared at him, his head tilting curiously to the side. "Are you really a thief, Bakura?"

The white-haired boy jumped a little at the sound of his name. "Yes, I really am a thief."

"I can't believe it." Marik shook his head a little, leaning his head against the wall and allowing his eyes to slide shut. "You can't really be..."

Marik's eyes flew open in shock when he felt something brush his forehead, and then the white-haired boy was gone. Marik gazed around in shock, his eyes wide open and his hands lifting in front of him, grasping at insubstantial, empty air. Bakura had disappeared as if he was never there; Marik hadn't even heard him leave. Glancing around, the alley was definitely empty – Marik checked both exits, frowning into the dawn light, his brow furrowed.

Marik wilted when he realised Bakura had left without saying goodbye, his stomach clenching. The thief had just gone, after almost ruining Marik's life. But, as the blonde haired boy slowly started to make his reluctant way back to the school, he couldn't get the thought out of his head that the night had been the most fun he'd had in years.

And he was sure Bakura had pressed a kissed to his forehead before he vanished into the sunrise.

...

Marik was furious.

He paced the aisles of the library with anger flaring in his gut, his violet eyes flashing as he strode through the corridors and out into the dwindling sunlight. This was a step too far. He had suspected for many years now that the Palace was not the righteous keeper of justice that it proclaimed itself to be, but finding such absolute proof was darkening his soul. And to think that Isis was willingly a part of that community of horrors ... Marik wrenched his thoughts away from his sister, the one who had abandoned him for years, and dragged his mind back to the present. He was due to become a fully-fledged scribe in three weeks, and he was absolutely dreading it. The thought of working for a Pharaoh who had the daring to cover up something like _this ... _It was sickening.

Marik slowed when he entered the streets of the town, his footsteps halting altogether when he saw the sheer looming front of the Temple of Horus. He had still only been there once, years ago on that forbidden night, with the white-haired thief who went by the name of Bakura. There had been no word of him before or since, but Marik had never forgotten; that night had been the most free he felt in his entire life. The next day the Priests had been absolutely irate when they discovered the missing food, but Marik had kept his head low and no one had suspected him. Bakura had been long gone, disappeared back to wherever he had come from, but Marik hadn't stopped looking for him. He would scour the markets, hunting the crowds, searching the streets whenever he was out in the hope of catching sight of that mop of white hair. But no; the thief had disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived, and Marik was none the wiser as to where he had gone. He had never forgotten, and never stopped looking, despite the number of years that passed.

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Marik pushed himself away from the warm stone wall and started back through the streets. It had been a long day spent studying in the musty old library, and he needed to clear both his head and his lungs. It had been far too long since he last went out to the tombs, anyway, and his thoughts of Bakura had his feet heading in that direction before Marik even knew where he was going.

Marik ducked his head as he wandered through the streets, hoping not to be noticed as he passed by the Temple. He did not want to see Isis. It had become a trial to visit his sister – their opinions were on such different levels, and their lives on such different paths, that it was difficult for Marik to have anything to do with her now. She had made her choice when she first wore her pristinely white Priestess robes, and she had left him far behind to fend for himself. He used to think that she put him into school to allow him to have a chance in life; he now suspected that it was more to stop him from being too much of an embarrassment to her. A little brother who was a street urchin would not look good for an aspiring Priestess, after all.

Marik kicked at the floor bitterly as he thought of his sister. She had got what she wanted, after all – she was a member of the Pharaoh's most trusted Council now, a part of the elite. She still made some show of making time for him, but Marik knew his place; the other members of the court made it perfectly clear when they looked at him like he was some scrap of dirt on the bottom of their shoe.

Marik was fed up of being treated like that. His fingers flexed by his sides before he curled them into fists, gripping tightly onto the sides of his purple robe as he strode quickly through the streets. The sooner he was out of here the better, and Marik had no intention of sticking around; not now that he knew the truth of the corruption of the Palace. Those parchments had left no doubt in his mind. The Pharaoh was evil, and so were all members of his court, even if that did include Isis. Marik's violet eyes clouded at the thought of his sister, but he pushed her out of his mind as he approached the gates to the town. He was leaving this stuffy existence behind him, for good.

Marik highly doubted he would even be missed.

The light dwindled further as Marik left the town and headed for the desert, the air growing colder with every step. Distant scents from the market, promising hot food and inviting warmth, drifted to him on a lonely breeze, but Marik ignored them in favour of turning his feet away from civilisation, knowing that he could never truly belong there again. He could feel his muscles loosening with every step he took. Being out under the open sky allowed him to forget his trapped, stuffy existence, all the hours he was forced to spend locked away studying scripture, rather than out under the sun. It was at those times that Marik thought back to Bakura, and he found himself rather envious of the white-haired thief. Had he ever achieved his dreams of becoming a tomb robber? Was he still a terror amongst the markets? Had he even survived this long? Life was notoriously difficult as a thief, after all; he could have been captured and killed years ago, and Marik had spent all this time searching in vain. For some reason, Marik's gut clenched whenever he thought of that.

With a shake of his head, Marik attempted to clear his mind of all thoughts, instead tilting his head back to admire the slowly-appearing stars. They dotted the velvety sky like pinpricks in a woven blanket, the occasional cloud drifting across and hiding some of them from view. Marik drew in a long breath, his eyes sliding closed for a moment as he stretched his arms up high, relishing in the feeling of his back clicking. It was late, and he was tired, but he knew that he could not return to the school. He would sleep under the stars tonight.

A rustle from ahead had Marik's eyes flying open, all movement ceasing as his violet gaze pierced through the night. There was a shadow shifting amongst the tombs ... a shadow with ... was that white hair?

Marik froze.

How appropriate, really, that after all his years of searching he found Bakura _now,_ tonight, when he had just pieced together the story behind the thief. Marik shook his head a little in disbelief, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. If he was right, then the Pharaoh had wronged Bakura greatly, and he knew just why the thief was as bitter as he had been that night, all those years ago. He had more of a reason than most to hate the Pharaoh and all that he stood for. Casting a long, searching look around the rest of the empty desert, Marik started forwards slowly, his footsteps quiet but noticeable in the dark of the ever-encroaching night. As he approached, he could make out more of the thief in front of him – his hair was definitely white, but with his back still to Marik the blonde couldn't be sure that it was Bakura. A long red robe flowed over the sand from where the figure was crouched over the entrance to a tomb, several large sacks splayed out on the sand beside him. Marik's eyebrows shot up when he saw a glint of something that looked suspiciously like gold.

Before the blonde could take another step, the thief in front of him whipped around, white hair flying and blade flashing in the fading light as it soared through the air. Marik ducked instinctively, his hands flying to protect his head only for a body to barrel straight into him, knocking him backwards with alarming force. Marik landed painfully on his back, letting out a gasping huff of air as he struggled to free his pinned arms. He blinked open violet eyes to meet a furious grey gaze, one cheek marred with a puckered white scar, and Mark's jaw dropped. It was really him, and this situation was far too familiar to the one that happened in the streets of the town all those years ago. Except now, Bakura was _heavy. _And incredibly warm.

Grey eyes flashed down at him. "Who the fuck are you?"

"What, you don't remember me?" Marik smirked up at him despite his heavy breathing. "I know you, _Bakura._"

As expected, the grey eyes widened, then narrowed. Slowly, the knife was removed from Marik's neck, but the white-haired thief remained leaning over him. He drawled, "And who would you be, hm? No one knows that name."

"I doubt anyone knows the name _Kul Elna,_ either." Marik shifted beneath him, silently congratulating himself on Bakura's shocked expression. The grey-eyed thief caught his expression and leaned closer, the blade appearing once more and digging painfully into Marik's throat. He winced.

"Tell me how you know that name," Bakura growled, "And rest assured, if you had anything to do with it, you will not survive much longer."

Marik couldn't help but snort at the obvious threat, but he stiffened at Bakura's furious features. "Um ... let me up, and I'll tell you."

"Like hell." Bakura growled, pushing against him.

Marik leaned as far away as he could, digging the back of his head into the sand. "Let me up."

Bakura breathed out, his fingers clenched around the blade, but he eventually relented and threw himself upright, turning his back on Marik. The red robe fluttered around him, revealing a muscled chest and a purple swathe of cloth wrapped around his waist. Marik raked his eyes over his tall form as he clambered off the sandy ground, his own purple robes flowing in the slight breeze. When Bakura turned back to him, his grey eyes were narrowed and the blade had disappeared. He smirked. "Oh yes, Marik, I remember you."

Marik took a step back, but he felt a flow of warmth pool in his stomach. "You remember?"

"Naturally." Bakura threw his head back and laughed, his cackles echoing across the desert. "How could I forget the good little scribe who stole the God's food with me?"

Marik hissed. "That was all you, and you were so lucky that we didn't get caught."

"Just as lucky as you," Bakura shrugged, his grey eyes twinkling. "And you would have actually had to face repercussions. Did your sister ever find out?"

Marik's eyes hardened, his face turning to stone. He turned away from Bakura, lines appearing in his forehead. Isis was no more than a disappointment to him now, but it still hurt. He knew that, if all went as planned tonight, Marik would never see her again. It tore at his heart.

"...Ok. I won't ask about your sister, then." Bakura tilted his head as he admired Marik silently; the boy had certainly grown from the small child he remembered. His hair was still blonde, his eyes still that shining violet, but their depths had lost their gleam – he looked troubled, saddened, and tired. Bakura wondered what could possibly have happened in all these years to make him look so. He had been so innocent as a child.

Marik blinked, turning back to face him with lines still marring the smooth skin of his forehead. "My sister is a Palace whore, and I want nothing more to do with her. Not now that I know about Kul Elna."

Bakura's features collapsed in on themselves. "Just how do you know about that?"

"I found a document." Marik's tone was strained as he spoke, his fists betraying his tension. "A few hours ago. It spoke of a village that was sacrificed in order to create the Millennium Items. I remembered what you told me, about your village being slaughtered, and I knew it couldn't be a coincidence ... the timing was right ... and Isis holds the Millennium Necklace..."

Bakura hissed. "Then she shall die, along with the rest of them."

"So it's true." Marik swayed, his eyes sliding shut as his head pounded. "It's really true – the village of Kul Elna was yours..."

Bakura watched in anger as Marik sank down to the sand, his hands open in front of him and his violet eyes glassy with shock. He had never quite believed it, never quite accepted that his own sister could be a part of something so evil...

"They were killed," Bakura began tonelessly. "They were slaughtered, and cut up, and tossed into a fucking fire and then the damn Items appeared the other side. I watched it all happen; I know that it was true."

Marik shook. His eyes squeezed shut, his hands fisted into the sand, and he released a long, loud moan. "No, it can't be ... Isis can't..."

"The fact that you deny it makes you no better than them," Bakura hissed. "It happened, and don't you dare fucking tell me that you don't believe it. You're probably just some rat who came out here to try and catch me."

_That_ struck a chord. Marik's eyes flew open, glaring up at the thief with anger in their depths. "I'm not one of them, fool. I'm fighting to get _out_ of there. I want no part in their so-called justice, and I will not be looked down on when I am far better than them. Do not mistake me for someone I am not, _thief,_ or I'll walk right out of here without giving you what I came here for."

Bakura actually took a step back, eyes widening in surprise. Marik scoffed under his breath, turning away and sinking back, sitting cross-legged. "I should have known you'd be no better." Allowing his lids to slide shut, Marik curled inwards and allowed his head to drop into his hands. Bakura had been his last hope. All these years Marik had pieced together what was wrong with the Palace, and he had dedicated himself to working against them; he would not become a pawn in their game, and he would not allow himself to serve them in any way. He would fight them with everything he had, and he had been relying on Bakura's help. It had taken more effort than he cared to admit to finally discover the documents he sought, and stumbling upon the secret of Kul Elna had only sealed the Palace's fate. In Marik's eyes, the Pharaoh was finished. But not if Bakura wouldn't see his side of things.

A warm hand pressed gently on Marik's shoulder, and two fingers tilted his chin up. Marik blinked his eyes open to find himself staring directly into Bakura's grey gaze. Bakura tilted his head, his brow furrowed. "Are you telling me you're leaving the school?"

"Absolutely." Marik grated out. "Nothing in the heavens or on earth could drag me back to that town. I had planned to leave, anyway, but when I found out about Kul Elna..."

Bakura's grip tightened. He nodded slowly, keeping Marik's gaze trained on him as he slowly spoke. "So ... you sought me out? Why?"

Marik drew in a breath. "I remembered you saying you wanted to become a tomb robber. No one does that unless they have a hatred for the Pharaoh, so I thought you could be a good ally. Plus, you owe me for bringing you into the Temple all those years ago. I have information that can bring the Palace down, if you're interested."

Bakura's eyes gleamed. "You might have yourself a deal there. I'll need to know more, though – what have you got against the Palace?"

"They stole my sister," Marik spat. "They stole my sister and they turned me away, for no reason other than that I come from a peasant background. Isis does, too, but Seto took one look at her beauty and welcomed her with open arms. She abandoned me for him, for them all! I was left with nothing; they may as well have thrown me out for the desert dogs to feed on my flesh. I am nothing to them."

Bakura frowned. "I thought you were becoming a Scribe."

"And what?" Marik scoffed. "I'm expected to just be a good little boy, and follow along with everything they want, with no say in how to run my own life? They can all go to hell if they think I'll do that."

Bakura stared for a long moment before he released Marik, falling back onto the sand and letting out a long, loud laugh. Marik tilted his head, still too wound up to be truly curious; the laughter of the other angered him more than anything. "What the hell is so funny?"

"You!" Bakura finally pulled himself together enough to speak, sitting up and shaking his head in Marik's direction. "I can't believe you're the same little boy who freaked out so much at entering the Sanctuary of the Temple."

Marik lifted his eyebrows, pointedly raking his eyes over Bakura's form as he responded, "And _I_ can't believe that you're the same scrawny little thief who was so desperate for food that he stole from the very Gods to get a decent meal."

"And shared the spoils with you," Bakura replied sagely. "Ungrateful brat, you never thanked me for that, either."

"You're also the rude child who left without saying goodbye," Marik pointed out, bringing his knees up to his chest and folding his arms around them. "Perhaps if you'd stuck around, I would have thanked you properly."

Bakura flashed him a sharp grin, white teeth standing in stark contrast with his darkly tanned skin. "As if I would have stuck around with you. You were far too boring."

"Huh, thanks." Marik hid his disappointment behind a pout, turning pointedly away from Bakura and gazing out into the night. "You won't be wanting my information then, I suppose."

"Don't be too hasty, now." Bakura leaned back with an arrogant smirk. "First of all, I'll be wanting to know exactly what this information is. Then, I'll require you to answer all my questions honestly – if we're to be partners, I must be sure you aren't betraying me."

Marik scoffed. "As if. You'll have to answer mine before I tell you anything; besides, you already know everything about me."

"And you about me." Bakura tilted his head. "I'm not talking about your background or your past, Marik. I want to know who you are now. Tell me everything about you, and perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement."

Marik frowned, his head tilting. "...Just what are you getting at here?"

"I mean," Bakura all but purred, leaning closer with that smirk at his lips once more, "That I desire your every dream. Tell me everything – who you are, what makes you tick, what gets you out of bed in the morning. I want to know it all."

Marik blinked. Bakura was pinning him in place with those deep grey eyes; they revealed so much but told so little about the man behind them, and Marik was burning with curiousity. This white-haired thief had taken over so many of his dreams, and had spent such a long time inside Marik's head that Marik had begun to wonder if he was just a figment of the imagination, a friend that he had invented for himself, born out of a lonely childhood and not someone real or substantial. Yet, there he was, sat on the desert with his arms folded, the same wicked smirk that Marik remembered, the same scar twisting the skin under one eye. Marik wanted to know everything about him, and he shivered when he realised that Bakura wanted the same from Marik_._

Perhaps there was a way to make this work.

Marik shifted, folding his legs under him and settling more comfortably against the sand, the moonlight turning Bakura's white hair silver and granting the desert an almost ethereal look. Marik tilted his head, taking in the sight of this so-much-more-adult Bakura; his body was toned and developed, still slim as a starved dog, but Marik guessed that finding meals whilst living the life of a thief must be difficult. He had a rangy, dangerous air, as if he was warning people off – get too close, and you would burn...

Marik was ready.

Opening his mouth, the blonde Egyptian drew in a breath before speaking. "Alright. But on one condition; for every question you ask me, I get to ask you one in return. And we answer everything honestly – no lies between us."

"Interesting." Bakura rested his chin on his folded arms, quite obviously looking Marik up and down. "Do people make a habit of lying to you then, Marik?"

A grin tugged at Marik's lips. "No, but I would be foolish to trust the word of a thief."

Bakura's brows rose in mild surprise, then sunk into a frown, and then he grinned. "Fair enough. Alright then; no lies, and any and all questions answered. Agreed?" He spat into his hand, then offered it to Marik.

"...Agreed." Marik, after a moment of hesitation, spat into his own hand and clasped Bakura's. The thief's hand was warm, amazingly warm in the cool of the desert night, and Marik had an urge to keep a tight hold of it, not wanting to let go. Bakura merely smirked at his tightened grip, but he allowed their fingers to remain clasped as he leaned forwards eagerly.

"So, Marik, let's start with the basics. What is your full name?"

Marik blinked, leaning back a bit. "Why would you want to..."

"Don't use up your questions," Bakura chuckled, grey eyes glinting in amusement. "You only get as many as I ask, remember."

Marik bit his tongue, sending the thief a dark glare before replying. "Fine. My name is Marik Ishtar. Are you a tomb robber now?"

A slow smirk stretched across Bakura's face. He turned a little, using his hand that wasn't joined with Marik's to sweep a wide arc behind him, gesturing to the sacks of gold that littered the desert around them. "Isn't it obvious?"

Marik looked with slightly widened eyes. "...I guess. Gods, you really have no respect for anything."

"Not a problem, I hope." Bakura lifted a finger to forestall Marik's response. "That wasn't one of my questions. _This_ is: why don't you want to be a Scribe?"

Marik blinked, shaking his head. "I ... I just don't like it. Or, I guess it's more the fact that I didn't get a choice; I was just shoved in that school in order to be out of the way."

Bakura shook his head when Marik trailed off. "That isn't enough of an answer. I said I wanted to know _everything,_ remember."

Marik hissed. "It isn't the easiest thing to talk about."

"Try." Bakura's eyes flashed as he fixed Marik with a glare, using their clasped hand to tug the blonde closer. Marik yelped when Bakura's warmth was suddenly surrounding him, his bare chest almost pressed against Marik's robed form, his free hand coming around to grip Marik's shoulder.

Marik swallowed. "I ... I hate being a Scribe because it was assigned to me with no choice on my behalf. I am trapped indoors all day, reading parchment after parchment of disgusting _Pharaoh_ history, expected to bow down and worship them just because they were born into a better family than I, when I knew of all the people living out on the streets, the people I was born the same station as, the thieves like the one who had taken me into the Temple. You opened my eyes that night. I realised just how elite the Priesthood is, and how they were stopping Isis from seeing me – they saw me as nothing better than a street urchin, leeching off my better sister, never mind the fact that she was only accepted for her beauty. Gods, it makes me so angry, to think of her demeaning herself by living with those Palace scum..." Marik hissed, drawing in a sharp breath. His violet eyes were sharp and dangerous as he turned them on Bakura. "Enough of an answer for you?"

Bakura's expression was hard to read – his eyes were flashing with anger, but it wasn't aimed at Marik. There was a crease in his forehead as he replied, "Yes, that will do for now. Your turn."

Marik nodded, shuffling a little closer as he settled into the sand, close enough that the two were breathing the same air. "I want to know how you survive. Sure, I know you rob tombs, but how do you actually eat and drink out here in the desert without getting yourself killed?"

Bakura released a low chuckle, the sound trickling straight into Marik's ear due to their close proximity. "Interesting question." Marik stared straight into Bakura's eyes at that; whenever the thief made such comments, it felt as if Marik was the one being analysed, rather than the other way around. Bakura was speaking again before Marik could think any further on it, though. "I survive through sheer determination. Food is easy enough to steal when you know what you're doing, and having grown up out here, I am experienced enough not to make mistakes. Oases are not exactly easy to find, but when you know the ways of the desert you learn to spot the signs. And the loot from the tombs is enough to trade, if you know which stalls to take them to."

"So you do all that on your own?" Marik looked a little incredulous, although there was a newly respectful gleam to his eyes. "You don't have any help at all?"

"Ah, ah, ah." Bakura wagged a finger playfully. "I get a question now, remember."

Marik growled. "That was a continuation of my other question, not a new one. Answer it."

"Nope," Bakura responded sagely. "How long have you been looking for me?"

Marik's jaw dropped slightly. "I haven't been looking for you!" The last thing he needed was for Bakura to know just how obsessed Marik had become with him over the years. The thief was already arrogant enough, and Marik was just a little afraid of exactly what would follow if he revealed that much.

"Please," Bakura scoffed, sending Marik a disparaging look. "You honestly expect me to believe that the one night you happen to wander out looking for me is the night that you find me? I am not so easy to track. I believe we said no lies? You should get a forfeit for that -"

"Fine," Marik growled bitterly. "I'll answer honestly, but no forfeit."

Bakura grinned.

"I..." Marik grimaced a little, twisting his head away from Bakura, trying to tug his hand free only for Bakura to clasp it tighter. With a hiss, Marik cast his mind far and wide to try and think of any way of saying this that wasn't going to make him sound like a stalker, or a weirdo, or just generally a creep. He drew a blank. "Oh, to hell with it," Marik muttered, shifting awkwardly on the sand and still refusing to meet Bakura's gaze. "I've been looking for you every night since the first time we met. You just disappeared, after all, and I had no way of knowing who you were or where you'd gone. But I remembered you saying you were a thief in the markets, so I went there every day to see if I could spot you. You were never around, though, so as I grew I started to read up on you a bit – I had all the libraries of the Scribes open to me, after all – and then I started going out of the town at night, to search the tombs to see if I could spot you. I've been searching for any mention of you for the past seven years, and as I searched, I discovered more about the corruption of the Palace. Rising taxes, increased payments, rationing out the water so they could save more for themselves ... I didn't like the picture I was building. And then, this morning, I discovered the secret of Kul Elna, and I remembered you saying you had watched your people be slaughtered ... It was too much of a coincidence not to be linked..." Marik started a little when he felt fingers on his chin, and his head was moved to stare straight into Bakura's grey eyes. They flicked over his face, taking in every detail, before settling back on Marik's violet gaze.

"I understand." Bakura nodded. Marik shivered a little at the hollow tone of Bakura's voice, and he impulsively lifted a hand to brush Bakura's scar, his fingers fascinated at the feeling of broken tissue beneath their tips. Bakura stiffened for a moment, but he allowed it; his own free hand rose to run his fingers through Marik's blonde hair, sending delicious tingles down Marik's spine. "I believe," Bakura murmured, "That it's your turn to ask a question."

Marik drew his hand back hesitantly, although Bakura kept his fingers moving softly through Marik's hair. Marik flicked his eyes downward briefly before glancing back up at Bakura, his eyes tracing the pattern under his right eye. "In that case ... I want to know how you got your scar."

The skin around Bakura's eyes tightened. "That is not an easy story to tell."

"Neither was why I hate being a Scribe," Marik pointed out, his tone soft but commanding. "Come on. No lies, you promised me."

Bakura growled, a dangerous sound, his grey gaze searing straight through Marik. Marik didn't flinch. Bakura stared for a long moment, his hand frozen in Marik's hair, before he finally started to speak. "My scar is a remnant of what happened at Kul Elna. I don't know how much you have read, but the soldiers came in the dead of night and ripped the place apart. They dragged everyone out of their homes and rounded them up in the central square, and then they killed everyone. I was watching from a corner, but when they got to my family I turned and ran, desperate to escape – they were setting the village on fire, too – but I hadn't realised there were guards around the perimeter to stop anyone from escaping. One of the guards caught me and he slashed my face, but I kicked him where it hurts and ran. I was too fast for them to catch me, and I didn't stop running until I was far enough away not to smell the burning and not to hear the screams." Bakura's tone was monotonous, his gaze still trained on Marik, gauging his every reaction. Marik once again felt that it was he being analysed, not the other way around, and he was certain that his face was betraying the horror he felt.

Bakura's eyes softened slightly, and his hand once more began moving through Marik's hair. Marik leaned into the touch gratefully, his own free hand lifting to brush Bakura's scar once more. "Thank you. And ... I'm sorry. I'm sorry that happened to you."

Bakura's eyes widened a little, his mouth opening slightly before his face abruptly closed, smirk back in place. "Well, yes. Now, back to you..."

Marik almost drew back at the wickedness that gleamed in Bakura's gaze, the almost playful lines that pulled at his lips, the sharp teeth that flashed just a little through his slightly parted lips. "Now, you tell me, Marik Ishtar," Bakura's smirk turned arrogant, amusement flashing in his eyes. "Just how long have you been in love with me?"

Marik's eyes widened. He drew in a shaky breath, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage, his mind screaming denial. "Wh-what? I'm not in -"

"Don't you lie to me, Marik Ishtar." Bakura leaned even closer, using his grip in Marik's hair to tug him forwards, his other hand tightening around Marik's fingers. Marik stopped breathing. Bakura was full-on grinning now, relishing in Marik's obvious discomfort, their foreheads almost touching. "Remember, we swore honesty. Come now – tell me the truth."

Marik hissed. He glared at Bakura, venom lacing his tone. "Insufferable bastard."

"That's me." Bakura smirked. "We're going nowhere until you answer me truthfully."

Marik squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a long sigh. Bakura had manipulated this whole conversation, and now Marik was trapped; he would have to come to terms with what had really been driving him all these years, and it was pathetic. But Bakura's grip was in his hair, his touches smooth and gentle, his fingers still tightly clasped around Marik's, and despite himself Marik could feel tingles streaking down his spine. Bakura tugged on Marik's hair, forcing his head to tilt upwards, and he whispered, "Tell me, Marik Ishtar."

Marik drew in a shaky breath, and his eyes flew open. Without allowing himself to think, Marik threw himself forwards and buried his head in Bakura's chest, throwing his arms under his shoulders and grasping his torso tightly. He opened his mouth and the words tumbled out, but Marik didn't let himself dwell on what he was saying. He just needed to say it. "I was just obsessed with you from the minute you first ran into me, and then you dragged me into the Temple and you showed me what life is like, and you let me see that there can be a life outside of the Scribes and the Priesthood, a life free of responsibility. But then you just left me without a word, and you didn't let me find you no matter how much I kept searching, and I was sure that I was nothing to you and that you'd just forgotten me. That hurt, because I loved you, although it took me years to realise it – you had become so important to me, but you could just _walk away_ without even trying to find me, even if I was sure you had kissed my forehead before you left..."

A dark chuckle interrupted Marik's outburst and hands were back in his hair, drawing him back just enough for lips to brush his forehead. "Like this, you mean?" rasped Bakura's deep voice, his fingers curling around the base of Marik's skull. Marik froze, his chest rising and falling rapidly, working moisture into his mouth as he dared to speak. "Well, yes. So ... you did kiss my forehead? Why would you do that? Actually, no, wait." Marik couldn't bring himself to fully pull away from Bakura, but he removed his arms from around his torso and met Bakura's gaze straight on. "That isn't my question. My question is this: why did you leave without saying goodbye, and then never try to find me?"

"That's cheating." Bakura tilted his head, his eyes still dancing with amusement. "That's two questions in one."

"I phrased it as one question." Marik frowned, moving to further disentangle himself only for Bakura's grip in his hair to keep him firmly in place.

Bakura sighed loudly, his arms lowering as he tugged Marik back towards him. "Fine. I'll answer both, but only because they're linked. I left without telling you because it was dawn and there were guards around, and if you were caught with me then you would have been in a great deal of trouble – my face was rather well-known back then, as a petty market thief. And as for your second question ... well, it's invalid, I'm afraid."

Marik blinked, the sand catching in his long purple robes as he moved closer to the thief. The moon was high in the sky by now, casting the desert in a silver glow that matched Bakura's grey eyes and white hair as he stared down at Marik, amusement tugging at his lips. Marik frowned. "What do you mean, invalid?"

"Well." Bakura hummed. "You asked me why I never tried looking for you. That doesn't work as a question, because I _did_ look for you. I found you, as well – there are only so many blonde Egyptians in the Scribe school – and so I watched you grow. I went back every day for the next five years, watching you as you learned and searched, and I saw that every night you went to the markets, or out to the desert; it took me a long time to realise that you were looking for me, though. Then, two years ago, I robbed my first tomb, and it was too dangerous for me to keep entering the town. I knew that you were looking for me, though, and I hoped that one day our paths would coincide once more."

Marik's jaw had dropped throughout this whole speech. He stared incredulously into Bakura's grey gaze, his heart once more making itself known behind his ribcage, his fingertips tingling. "You were watching me that whole time? I never saw you!"

"A thief is good at staying hidden," Bakura chuckled. His hands ran slowly down Marik's arms, catching hold of his hands and intertwining their fingers as he looked down at the sand. "And ... I thought ... When I saw the life you had, with the Scribes and the school, I didn't want to ruin it for you. My life is dangerous, and I couldn't ask you to be a part of that when you had your own place in society. I wouldn't ruin things for you."

Marik felt a smile slowly grow across his face at Bakura's words, a warmth growing in his chest as he began to understand. The white-haired boy from his childhood, the one who had so captivated Marik, had been just as intrigued in him. Marik had not been abandoned. Marik had not been forgotten. Marik's bones sang.

The smirk was back on Bakura's face as he looked up at Marik. "I have one more question for you."

"I will answer, provided I can ask you one more as well," Marik nodded. "Then we'll be even."

"Spoken like a true thief." Bakura grinned at Marik, leaning closer so that he could whisper the words directly into Marik's ear. "So my question is this: what is the information you brought out to me tonight? You mentioned bringing down the Pharaoh – that is a goal we both want to work towards, I believe."

Marik started as he leaned back – he had almost forgotten about the reason he came out here in the first place. With a sly grin, Marik pulled his hands free of Bakura's grip and dipped his hand inside his purple robe, returning with a scroll clasped tightly in his fingers. He opened it slowly, eyes scanning the diagrams until he found the right place, not missing the interest that flashed in Bakura's gaze as Marik turned the scroll to face him. "Here," Marik grinned. "This is what I came to show you."

Bakura leaned forwards, his eyes going round as he saw what Marik was offering him. "This ... this is the plan for..."

"The most recent Pharaoh's tomb," Marik finished with a nod. "Atem's father. It was only sealed last month, so no one will be expecting a robbery; its traps are the most dangerous yet. Stealing from it will cause the ultimate damage to Atem's reputation."

Bakura laughed, his dark peals ringing across the desert as he impulsively pulled Marik closer. Marik gasped as his head connected with Bakura's shoulder, overbalancing and forcing the white-haired thief backwards until they were both sprawled flat on the desert sand, Bakura's dark laughter still ringing in Marik's hair. Marik felt warmth surround him as Bakura clasped his arms tightly around Marik, rolling until Marik was flat on his back with Bakura leaning over him, smirk stretching his dark lips wide. Marik looked up, frozen, as Bakura pulled his fingers through blonde hair, leaning down to press another kiss to Marik's forehead before he sat up, fingers reaching for the scroll. "Genius. Absolutely ingenious."

Marik felt a small bundle of pride at that, pulling himself up until he was leaning casually on his elbows. "Glad you approve. Now, I believe you still owe me an answer."

Bakura shot him a look, his grey eyes gleaming. "Yes, I believe I do. What is your question, then?"

"Hmm..." Marik tilted his head up to the sky, thinking carefully over what to make this last question. His mind returned to the first day he had met Bakura, the only other time he had spoken to the thief; despite the many years between then and now, Marik could remember every word spoken as if it were yesterday. He remembered something that he had found a little strange, and looking back now, it appeared even stranger. Marik turned to Bakura with a frown. "Back when we were children, just before you dragged me into the Temple ... When I asked you your name, you said you weren't important. What did you mean?"

Bakura's expression faded slightly, his gaze turning faraway as he glanced out at the desert. Marik watched his flickering features with keen interest, trying to follow the array of emotions and failing miserably; Bakura was as hard to read as ever. When he turned back around, Marik saw that he had settled on arrogance, the tilt to his chin saying it all. His lips stretched wide as he spoke. "Come here."

"What?" Marik tilted his head. "That isn't an answer to my question..."

Bakura sighed loudly, reaching over and pulling Marik sideways with more force than Marik realised he had. With a startled yelp, Marik tumbled over, his head landing embarrassingly in Bakura's lap. Marik struggled to sit back up only for dark hands to push him back down, fingers tangling in his blonde hair and a quiet laugh reaching his ears. "If I'm going to answer that question, Marik, then you are going to sit where I want you to."

Marik shivered under Bakura's touch, reluctantly allowing his head to settle across Bakura's knees. "And, what, you want my head in your lap?"

"For just now, yes." Bakura was smirking; Marik could hear it in his voice. "Now shut up and listen. I told you I wasn't important because at the time, I really _wasn't_; no one ever asked my name, no one wanted to know me. All they saw was a little street rat, an urchin who would be better off dead. You didn't see that, though. You saw me, and you did what I said, and that night was the most fun I had had since the destruction of my village."

Marik went still at the emotion in Bakura's voice, his eyes widening. He twisted in Bakura's lap, lying on his back to find the thief gazing straight down at him. Marik's throat constricted at the intensity of that stare; it was as if Bakura was searing into Marik's very soul, and Marik could look back and truly see Bakura. He saw the lonely little white-haired boy, forced out onto the streets all on his own, his people so cruelly taken from him, and Marik felt his heart swell. Bakura was empty, and Marik wanted to help.

Slowly, Marik lifted himself up from Bakura's lap, relieved when the thief didn't try to stop him. Bakura's expression turned quizzical the closer Marik got, his head tilting to the side and his eyes narrowing when Marik lifted a hand to trace his scar, moving his fingers softly to brush Bakura's cheek. Meeting Bakura's gaze, Marik inched closer torturously slowly, his nose brushing Bakura's cheek before their lips finally met.

The kiss was long, slow and sensual. Marik's fingers slid into Bakura's hair, his fingers pulling at the strands as he pressed against the thief, relief and warmth washing through him when he felt the thief respond. Bakura very quickly took control, his mouth opening urgently and forcing Marik's with it, brushing his lips with his tongue before sliding fully into Marik's mouth. Marik's eyes were forced closed at the sudden onslaught of sensation, his back bending as Bakura leaned forwards, his grip turning desperate as he tried to hold on. Bakura was unrelenting, his sharp teeth nibbling gently at Marik's lip before he drew back a little, and Marik took the chance to slide his own tongue into Bakura's mouth. They exchanged kisses for many, many moments before need for air forced Marik away, his lungs screeching for a breath which Marik shakily drew in. Bakura was smirking, as ever, his head lifting arrogantly as he pulled Marik closer. Marik gladly rested his cheek on Bakura's chest, his eyes sliding closed as arms wrapped around him, their legs entangled on the desert sand.

Bakura was the first to speak.

"That was the first time anyone had said my name," Bakura murmured softly into Marik's hair, his fingers threading through the soft golden strands. "When you asked me, back when we were children, I had almost forgotten what it was. It had been four years since the destruction of my village, and no one had ever asked me my name. I swore, after you, that I would never let it, or the people of Kul Elna, ever be forgotten again."

"It would seem you have a lot to thank me for." Marik smirked up at him, his arms winding securely around Bakura's waist, his head tilting attractively to the side.

The Thief King laughed. "I owe you nothing, Marik Ishtar. All questions asked and answered honestly – we are even. I just have one more thing to ask of you."

Marik frowned, pointing out the obvious. "That would make us uneven, fool."

"Not exactly." Bakura grinned, leaning forwards to kiss the tip of Marik's nose. "I think you'll like this question. It isn't a part of our deal."

"It better be good," Marik muttered sullenly, eliciting another dark chuckle from Bakura.

Bakura tugged Marik over, pulling him fully into his lap and resting his cheek on top of Marik's head. "My question," he began slowly, sighing a little when Marik's arms wrapped around his torso, "Is this. Will you stay with me, out in the desert, and help me bring down the Pharaoh?"

Marik went silent. His cheek was pressed firmly into Bakura's chest, so he could hear every reaction within the thief's body – his heart was pounding, his breathing shallow, his arms tight as they held Marik firmly in place. Marik shuddered a little at the plaintive tone to Bakura's voice, delicious shivers rolling down his spine. He didn't take long to answer; his decision had been made the moment he walked out of the town that night.

Marik looked up at Bakura with a smile tugging at his lips. "Of course I will stay here with you. It would be my pleasure."

**Quite a fluffy ending, sorry about that. ^_^ If you spot any typos please let me know, my laptop was playing up so I didn't have time to proof-read this as much as I usually would. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! XD - Jem**


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